


Every Wise Man's Son Doth Know

by zuzeca



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Based on a Tumblr Post, Board Games, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Insomnia, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Spark Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Timeline What Timeline, Vaginal Fingering, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by spark ghosts of his former enemy, Optimus makes a stop aboard the Lost Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Samizdat is progressing, never fear, but in the meantime, have a bit of not-so-Christmas porn instead. Loosely based, perhaps a bit morbidly, on [this post](http://robotsandramblings.tumblr.com/post/101869883864) by robotsandramblings on Tumblr, which hijacked my poor brain and sent it on another long writing bender. Since it turned out rather more on the fluff end of things than I expected (and much longer due to shameless encouragement from Reyairia ;P), I figured it would make a nice little present for my friends and followers. It does some acrobatics with the MTMTE timeline but it is, as always, for the porn. ;3 Happy holidays everyone! May your year be full of warmth and joy and all those little moments that make life worth living.
> 
> Also, it's worth noting that "hax" is not a game of my own creation, but rather a nod to peacewish's marvelous G1 Jazz/Soundwave epic "These Games We Play". If you have not done so I definitely recommend checking it out.

_Heat pressed in around him, dark and close with the scent of soot and slag and the ozone afterburn of cannon fire. He twisted, impaled, lubricant dripping. Above him, his tormentor gave a rough laugh._

_“The great Optimus Prime. If only your troops could see you now: on your back, open and helpless before your greatest foe. What would they think of you, I wonder?”_

_He arched, straining. He would not bend, he would not break—_

_“Hush now, don’t struggle.” Movement inside him, slow and excruciating and he moaned, hands clutching at the frame pressed to his. “It hurts, does it not? But remember,” He turned his helm aside and a sharp grip on his battlemask brought him back to face them, red optics, burning crimson with battlefire, lifting from the limb thrust into Optimus’s chassis to bore into his own._

_“This,” said Megatron, “is how I **like** it.”_

_The hand around his spark tightened and he overloaded—_

Optimus came online with a shout, tumbling off the berth in a tangle of limbs and rolling into a crouch. Freezing, he scanned the tiny hab-suite, fingers clenched tight around the blaster he couldn’t remember grabbing.

Empty.

Shaking, he let himself slump back against the side of the berth, fuel pump throbbing and spark racing. His plating fairly crawled with charge. It was still offcycle according to his chronometer and a ping from the ship’s computer notified him that two cycles remained before estimated convergence with _The Lost Light_.

Optimus offlined his optics and groaned, helm clanking against the berth as he allowed it to fall backwards.

This was a terrible idea.

He wouldn’t even be in this situation if he hadn’t carelessly mentioned his next destination to Ultra Magnus, during one of their semi-regular conversations—disguised in fashion typical to Ultra Magnus as routine reports, never mind that he hadn’t been under Optimus’s command for some time now—on the status of the ship.

Or rather its captain, but Magnus was polite enough to cater to Optimus’s paranoia without drawing excess attention to it.

_“He’s doing well,” Ultra Magnus had said. “The crew is warming to him, most of them at least. Rung’s mostly bound by patient confidentiality of course, but he seems pleased.”_

_“And Megatron himself? How does he seem?”_

_Magnus had gone quiet at this. “My professional opinion is positive. He interacts with others and does not isolate himself, demonstrates a sense of responsibility and caring, in his own way, for those under his command.”_

_“And your personal opinion?”_

_An expression of frustration had crossed Ultra Magnus’s face. “My ability to navigate emotional complexities is somewhat lacking.”_

_“Then you have suspicions.”_

_“Less suspicions than concerns. As I said, he interacts with others, personally as well as professionally, but there is something…muted about him for lack of a better term.”_

_“Muted?”_

_“I am reluctant to ascribe emotional states to others, but I am almost inclined to suggest that he is lonely.”_

Optimus turned his blaster over in his hands, checking and rechecking it in automatic habit from his cycles on the force, a repetitive task that always soothed his processor and spark. What did it matter if Megatron was or was not lonely? He had made the choice to play out this farce, to cross the galaxy in some futile attempt to delay the inevitable, to hold back the tide of beings howling for his energon. His fate was out of Optimus’s hands, if it had ever been in them to begin with, his few clumsy attempts to guide Megatron from his path of destruction, his own or others, always stymied by those with more power, more wisdom, more foresight.

Within his chassis, the empty space where the Matrix had rested ached.

His processor fritzed and complained, interrupted during its defragmentation cycle. He desperately needed rest, but the charge from his memory file replay had still not dissipated. Half-turning, he tucked the blaster up near the head of the berth before climbing up after it. Settling back, he stared up at the blank ceiling of the little hab-suite.

Deep-space travel was dangerous, even to a race as long-lived and unchanging as his own. The long dark between quantum jumps left too much time for reflection, for marinating in one’s thoughts.

He hadn’t received much psychotherapy over the course of the war, hampered by time and lack of resources. And while Ratchet was technically certified for emergencies, their prior rapport created a conflict of interest masquerading as awkwardness.

No doubt Rung would have had something to say about his processor’s linkage of an act of violence to an act of intimacy, but Optimus could not at the moment bring himself to care. Perhaps it had been his fault, never crossing that final threshold and baring his spark to another, leaving him vulnerable and blindsided when Megatron had broken through his plating and violated something never meant to be touched.

Or perhaps he could have sparkmerged with thousands and still woken cycle after cycle with the hot brand of invasive touch on him. When he’d said he could feel Megatron on the edge of his spark, he’d meant it quite literally, the imprint of heavy, rough fingers on the very core of him. Bodies could be switched, altered, broken down and reshaped anew, but the spark was eternal, the representation of all he was.

And Megatron had held it in his hand.

Part of him wished that Megatron had been successful, crushed it like a cheap bauble, something to match the physical agony with the mental, but despite the pain of ripped plating and circuitry and the instinctive alarm of the threat to his very life force, Megatron’s fingers had been eerily gentle, reverent almost, as though conscious of the fragility.

A lover’s touch.

Optimus’s spark throbbed and an electric zing zipped through his circuitry, curling in his interface array. Groaning, he covered his face and pinged the computer once more.

One point three seven cycles.

He doubted he’d recharge for any of it.

 

His welcoming party was, to his surprise and relief, much smaller than he’d expected. Ultra Magnus was there of course, looking as close to pleased as Ultra Magnus ever did, and the wide-mouthed metallurgist, Swerve, who looked fit to burst with excitement, likely at the thought of a returning customer to his little establishment.

And Megatron, standing to Ultra Magnus’s left, with an expression so blank and artificial it made something in Optimus’s tanks roil. Optimus waited until he’d greeted Magnus and Swerve before acknowledging him. “Megatron,” he inclined his helm, “I hope the cycle finds you well?”

“Well enough,” said Megatron. “Though I was uninformed of the occasion which begged your presence here. Come to make sure I haven’t slaughtered the crewmembers as they recharged?”

Optimus stiffened and cast a questioning look at Ultra Magnus, “This is not any sort of official visit. More a happy accident.” Grateful for his mask, he looked back to Megatron, forcing his field into an even hum, “Or an unhappy one, I regret that my impending arrival was sprung upon you unawares.”

Megatron glanced sidelong at Ultra Magnus but his expression did not change, “Not so unhappy, merely unexpected. I’ll have an additional hab-suite cleaned out.”

“Unnecessary,” said Optimus, resisting the urge to sigh in relief, “My ship is docked in the cargo bay, I can rest aboard it.”

“If that is your preference,” said Megatron.

Silence fell between them and Swerve coughed awkwardly. “Well,” he said, “how about a drink? Everybody likes drinking.”

Megatron’s orbital ridge quirked very slightly and his field flashed irritation before smoothing out. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone, save perhaps those who do not, and those who cannot. A marvelous idea.”

“Glad you think so!” said Swerve. “We’ll lubricate the gears of conversation, have a little spark-to-spark, you guys can watch me get drunk. It’ll be great!”

Megatron’s expression shifted to one of exasperation, “Lead the way.”

This far into offcycle, the bar was empty, though that might have had something to do with the hastily drawn sign Swerve had stuck to the door reading “Back in Ten!” in sloppy, crooked glyphs. Ten what he’d failed to elaborate on, and Optimus rather suspected this was deliberate, to give Swerve the option of being absent anywhere from mere moments to ten metacycles without claiming he’d spoken any falsehoods. He shoved the door open and bustled behind the bar, rummaging among the glowing containers. “What can I get you?”

“Midgrade,” said Ultra Magnus.

“An empty cup,” said Megatron flatly.

Swerve snorted. “One shore leave incident and you never let me mix anything for you again. Fine, spoilsports,” he slid an empty cup towards Megatron, who caught it, and fished under the counter for a plain container marked ‘Allergic to Fun’ and poured Ultra Magnus a cup of its contents. “Please tell me _you_ have better taste,” he said, looking over at Optimus as he seated himself gingerly at the bar. “Nightmare Fuel? Engex on the rocks with manganese shavings?”

“Just a cup of the house blend, please,” said Optimus. His helm was beginning to ache already and he hadn’t even touched the high grade.

“I would suggest specifying a particular variety,” said Ultra Magnus, “as Swerve’s house blend is rather notorious for containing substances of questionable safety or origin.”

Swerve shot him a wounded look but Ultra Magnus merely took a long sip from his cup, unmoved.

Optimus resisted the urge to rub his hand across his face, “Very well. How about that one?” He indicated a container above the bar labeled ‘Sweet-and-Twenty’. It was the same ultraviolet hue as most of the others, but also appeared to contain no strange floating particles or ominous bubbles.

Swerve looked unimpressed. “Really? _Tailgate_ likes that one.”

“Just pour the energon,” said Megatron, uncorking a flask from his subspace and dumping some of the sickly yellow liquid inside it into his own cup.

Optimus flinched, hunching, his tank roiling as he watched Megatron drink from the corner of his optic. He’d know the conditions of Megatron’s release of course, they’d been read to him in excruciating detail, but such casual presentation of one of his failures at the negotiating table still stung. Swerve tutted but poured Optimus a cup of the stuff anyway, pushing it across the bar before obtaining some sort of disgusting greenish fluid for himself, layered with a suspicious orange precipitate that might or might not have been deliberately added. Plopping down at the bar, he took a deep draft of his drink and propped himself up on his elbow. “Now,” he said, smiling. “How about you tell Old Swerve all about your troubles, eh? I’m the best listener.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Megatron. “Indeed, who requires Rung’s services when you may have your personal difficulties spread to the entire ship in less time than it takes to mix a batch of Nightmare Fuel?”

Swerve made a face, but did not contest the claim. “At least give me your opinion on the engex. Then I can put, ‘Preferred Drink of Optimus Prime’ on the outside of the barrel and charge more for it.”

Optimus rather felt like purging his tanks, but he lifted the cup anyway, withdrawing his battlemask and taking a long, slow sip. The liquid flooded his mouth, lighting up sensors as it trickled into his tank. It was, as perhaps could be expected, overwhelmingly sweet, but at he swallowed the sweetness receded, leaving behind a bitter-sour tinge and carving a surprisingly pleasant path of warmth inside him, calming the uneasy pulsing of his spark. Startled, he set the cup down slowly and stared at it.

“Well?” said Swerve.

He found his voice again, “It is good.”

Swerve’s smile widened and he knocked back the rest of his own drink before hopping up. Fishing a stylus and a small sign from his subspace, he scribbled on it and stuck the sign to the outside of the container. “Hello, extra three shanix a glass.”

Optimus took another drink and wrapped his hands around the cup, watching the play of light off the surface of the engex. The liquid sent a spreading tingle through his limbs, and he found his tensor cables relaxing, dorsal struts weakening until he had to lean against the edge of the bar to ease the ache of his own weight sagging down. He sighed, very quietly, systems dropping into a slow, even rhythm similar to when he recharged. Reputation be slagged, Tailgate had the right idea; this was very pleasant.

A tiny tickle on the edge of his spark, a phantom itch, and he raised his helm, surfacing from the half-trance of the high grade, to find Megatron looking straight at him.

A jolt passed through him, zinging through circuit and wire. Megatron’s optics were fixed, intense but unreadable, glowing deep and crimson in the muted light of the bar. Optimus’s spark throbbed once, artificially slow from the influence of the engex, and a static tingle rippled along the surface of his protoform, as though he’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen. His hand clutched spasmodically around the cup and he jerked his gaze back to it, forcing his fans to remain at a steady pace as his core temperature gave a little jump.

“Another round?” said Swerve.

“No,” said Optimus, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. “I believe I am done for the cycle.”

Swerve tsked. “At least let me make you up a cube to go. Something to guard against the long, cold cycles until you can get slagfaced again.”

“Fine, thank you,” said Optimus, suddenly anxious for the evening to be over.

“If you are weary from the journey, you may of course retire,” said Megatron, voice deep and even and edged with a hint of what might have been condescension, “but I believe that it might be prudent to have a little talk before you do so, captain-to-captain, if you will.”

Optimus’s systems fairly barked in alarm and he clamped down on the involuntary response as his weapons array strained to come online. Ice washed through his spark, warring with the warm tide of engex and he downed the rest of his cup, setting it down with a hand that trembled only slightly and lifting his helm to look at Megatron.

“I think,” he said, with a calm he did not feel, “considering the last such conference, the results might be unpleasantly shocking.”

There was something sickly gratifying in watching the startled, blindsided expression flash across Megatron’s face before it smoothed out, becoming just as blank as when he’d welcomed Optimus aboard. His tanks churned, systems warm and humming and he fought the urge to purge once more.

“Perhaps so,” said Megatron, guarded but pushing on regardless, “but as the situation is now quite different, this may be an opportunity to clear the air.”

A small torrent of resigned despair flooded through him. How many times? How many times must he gird himself against Megatron’s assault, build and rebuild his armor against the jagged-glass blades of those words? The Matrix had fortified him to carry weight, to hold up against the slice of blade and burn of plasma, but how long? Pride in endurance was a cold comfort and faced with the prospect of yet another trial, Optimus would have just as soon have held their proposed conversation with his fists.

But Swerve pushed a small cube of Sweet-and-Twenty into his hands and from beside him Ultra Magnus’s field pulsed uncharacteristically calm encouragement and Optimus grappled with himself, biting back the howl of rage or frustration or dismay that wanted to erupt from his vocalizer and picking up the cube. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

He’d hoped that Megatron might choose some neutral ground, a conference room or even a storage closet, but Optimus found himself somehow utterly unsurprised when Megatron guided him to the captain’s quarters. He always did prefer the advantage of home field.

The hab-suite was smaller than he expected, a receiving room with a table and two seats, large and heavy enough to seat a mechanism of Megatron’s stature, and two shut doors, leading Optimus presumed to a berthroom and washrack; a similar setup to his own quarters aboard the little starhopper. Through the porthole on the far wall he could see the black field of stars.

“Please, sit,” said Megatron, indicating the seat nearest to the door. Optimus lowered himself into the chair, movements cautious to compensate for the lingering effects of the engex, and watched as Megatron settled across from him, his hands smoothing across the surface of the table with quick, nervous movements. Optimus’s own hands felt limp and heavy in his lap and he clasped them to halt the slight tremors.

Silence stretched between them until at last Optimus shifted, “Well? Did you wish to talk, or was this merely an excuse to subject me to some new mockery?”

“I spoke no untruth,” said Megatron stiffly. “I wish to talk. Though my motivations are twofold; I am merely trying to decide how to broach the latter topic.”

“I never thought to see you balk at anything.”

“In battle, perhaps not,” said Megatron, a ghost of a smile flashing across his face. “And perhaps to my detriment. But the maneuvers of war are disparate from the maneuvers of more prosaic intimacies and thus I find myself at a loss.”

Optimus’s fuel pump hitched, sending a cascade of ice through his lines. Static whined in his audio sensors and his hands tightened against each other. “I see,” he managed.

Megatron frowned at the table, thumb rubbing absent circles across the surface of it and a small, shameful thrill raced through Optimus, the corona of his spark aching as he watched the movement of Megatron’s fingers, stark and black against the silver of the tabletop. “Though we were denied the opportunity to meet in anything other than conflict,” said Megatron slowly, “I feel that I cannot be alone in sensing a connection between us.”

Optimus’s optics spiraled open. Surely Megatron could not be—?

“And while I never thought to have this opportunity, now that we are here, as we are now, I find myself longing to know. It is perhaps the foolish desire of an old mechanism, but I would be most pleased to know if you shared it, or were at least willing to indulge me.”

Optimus reset his vocalizer to keep it from making an embarrassing noise, “Megatron—”

“Particularly since Rung agreed to let me borrow this,” said Megatron, rummaging in his subspace. “Provided we agreed to return it to him in pristine condition.”

Optimus’s orbital ridges furrowed, “Wait, what?”

Triumphantly Megatron set a small holocube down on the table between them and tapped a button on the top. Lines of hardlight shot from the cube, unfolding into a multi-tiered structure. A set of colorful game pieces winked into existence before Optimus and a tiny message blinked beneath them.
    
    
    Select Color to Begin

“One of Soundwave’s reports once included your partiality to hax,” said Megatron, looking somewhat abashed. “I wondered if you might enjoy a game?”

For a moment Optimus was struck speechless, torn between shock at what Megatron was offering and discomfort that he’d used enemy intelligence reports to determine Optimus’s entertainment preferences. Or rather that Megatron seemed utterly unconcerned that he’d used enemy intelligence reports to do so. Somewhere in the back of his processor, Optimus could nearly hear Soundwave’s disapproving monotone: _“Material: not for intended use, Lord Megatron.”_

But Megatron looked so strangely earnest and Optimus’s tank churned within him, spark giving a little jump and he found himself caving. Not trusting himself to speak, he reached out and touched the blue game piece and was rewarded with the first genuine smile he’d ever seen on Megatron’s face.

He was thoroughly slagged.

 

Hax games, as Optimus had forgotten in the millennia since he’d lost his own board, went on _long_.

The intention behind the design was to permit the development of rapport between mecha, breaking down the hesitancies and smoothing out the awkwardness by providing engagement to one sub-processor while leaving others free for making conversation. But as such, it was intended to be played over the course of perhaps ten cycles.

Megatron seemed determined to plow through their round in less than half a cycle, ramping up the usually easy pace of the game to breakneck speed and forcing Optimus to engage several thought threads to keep up with him. Optimus’s tank and processor began to ache and he finally raised a hand. Megatron halted, fingers still outstretched towards his piece, and looked at him questioningly.

“Have you?” Optimus tried to concoct more diplomatic phrasing for his query and failed. “Have you ever played hax before?”

Megatron’s face shut down. “Rung instructed me on the rules,” he said, tone slightly defensive.

Optimus resisted the urge to sigh, “And did he also explain _how_ the game is played?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

Optimus recalled his last, leisurely game millennia ago, tucked up beside Roller on the berth in his apartments, holocube arranged awkwardly between them, trading teasing touches in an attempt to distract each other, and shut down the thought thread. “It’s a game built for friendly competition, not intense challenges,” he said. “Light engagement, to distract the processor while making conversation. You said you wanted to talk.”

Megatron’s face darkened, “I assumed you would not want to.”

Optimus sighed, “I should not have needled you about that. It was wrong of me, as my actions were wrong before.”

“You only did what I wished you to do.”

“Maybe so, but I should not have permitted you to manipulate me. I knew that you were doing it, but I was tired and angry and allowed myself to be goaded.”

“Say what you will,” said Megatron tightly, “but we both know that it is on my part that an apology is owed. I said those things to hurt you, regardless of the truth in them, and you did not deserve that.”

Optimus regarded him steadily, “And yet you meant them.”

“I do not know if I did or not. As always, you test my ability to remain objective.”

Optimus laughed roughly, “You plowed through my objective ability all the way to the floor of the Grand Imperium. I believe we are equal in that regard.”

Megatron looked contemplative. “Is it true?” he said. “Did you really stand before the entirety of the Senate and declare me your friend?”

Optimus’s vents hitched.

“I know the objective truth of it,” said Megatron. “Ratbat was of course present at the time and Soundwave had no reason to lie about what occurred, but I have no way of knowing the motivation or the—I suppose what I am asking is: did you mean it?”

Optimus looked down at his own hands, resting on the tabletop and tried to gather his processor threads. “At the time,” he said slowly “we did not know each other, so I suppose that it was a strange declaration to make. And yet, I remember reading your datapad, while you were in the precinct, and your words made a mark. In that moment, I felt that I _did_ know you, that I had known you all my life. So yes, I did mean it.”

Megatron’s orbital ridge rose, “My essays made that much of an impression?”

“Not the essays,” said Optimus quietly. “The poems.”

Megatron looked startled for a moment before sinking back into his seat, regarding Optimus with an even stare through the hardlight scaffold of the hax board. “And,” he said, and it seemed to cost him great effort to say. “And now? Are we friends?”

Optimus’s spark contracted and his optics spiraled open. “I…I do not know,” he said.

Megatron slumped slightly, “That is a fair answer.”

“I think…I think sometimes that too many things have happened, too much has been torn away, too much hatred has been spoken, too many outsiders have interfered. We never were able to face each other, you as you and me as me, outside the woven web of those with their own motives.”

“Nowhere outside of battle,” said Megatron.

Optimus’s systems hiccupped, fuel pump skipping and spark flaring. Static snow crackled on the edges of his vision and he hunched over, audio sensors ringing as he tried to force his systems back into submission. His processor, strained from the game and lack of proper defrag cycles, glitched and sent an improperly stored memory file playing, heat and ash and acute agony. Pain flared in his antennae as he clutched at his helm.

And then he was being turned, hands gripping his wrists to pull them down. Megatron knelt before him, looking up at him in concern and the dissonance of the position, the expression on his face, gave Optimus something to cling to as the file reached its end.

One of the hands disappeared and then there was an odd, queerly intimate sensation as Megatron reached in and rummaged through his subspace and it should have felt like violation, the height of indecency, but Optimus could only sit there, numb and strangely relieved as Megatron’s groping fingers bypassed his blaster and drew out the small cube that Swerve had given him. Cracking the corner of the cube in a one-handed maneuver, Megatron lifted it to Optimus’s mouth. “Here,” he said.

Hands still lead, Optimus sipped at it, forcing back the urge to purge it right back up. The sweet-warm taste of it cut through the icy feeling and he drew in a deep breath, spark throbbing. Megatron released his other wrist and guided his hand, forcing the fingers to wrap around the cube. Gripping it, he stared at Megatron, who looked up at him, searching, though for what Optimus could not have guessed.

They sat quietly, Megatron’s weight resting against Optimus’s legs, unmoving as Optimus’s spark slowed and his systems returned to equilibrium.

“I am sorry,” said Megatron, his voice quiet.

Optimus could not think of what to say. ‘It is alright’ carried the taste of a lie, and ‘It was war’ felt far too cold for the intimacy of the moment. “I am as well,” he said.

Megatron shifted, weight bumping against Optimus and jostling his hand, slopping a little of the energon over the edges of the cube. It trickled over his knuckles, dripping onto his thigh and Megatron’s helm jerked back, though he didn’t remove himself. He turned his face away, optics dimming and Optimus stared in puzzlement before realization struck him.

Volatile fumes rose from the surface of the spilled energon, towards Megatron’s face, a taunt to starved systems. And yet he stayed, a heavy, grounding weight, offering what comfort he could and something in Optimus cracked.

Lifting the cube, he took another drink of energon, letting the warm, crackling liquid fill his mouth, sparking across the surface of his glossa. Reaching down, he cupped the back of Megatron’s helm, tilting his face upwards towards his own.

When he’d first witnessed humans kissing, he hadn’t been able to fully process what he was seeing. Theories, anthropological studies, they all could lay out the cold, logical progression of how such a thing had developed, but failed to encompass the enormity and vast complexity of _why_. His own kind had no such practice, mouths shaped for utility and practicality, not intimacy, and yet somehow it felt perfectly natural to press his mouth to Megatron’s, pushing his glossa inside and allowing the energon to flood in after.

Megatron stiffened under him and a small amount of energon leaked from the edges of where their mouths met, but Optimus persisted, his field pulsing encouragement and grief and longing and Megatron’s hands gripped his thighs before he was rising up, braced on Optimus’s legs as he kissed back, glossa sweeping over his own and probing for energon. Megatron’s systems revved, drinking in the energy and Optimus’s hand tightened on the back of his helm, his spark singing in welcome as Megatron withdrew, panting slightly and allowed the front of his helm to rest against Optimus’s crest.

“Wait,” he said, and an apology was already in Optimus’s processor queue when Megatron said again, “wait.” He offlined his optics for a moment, crimson light winking out and drew a deep, steadying breath, the heat from his engines washing over Optimus’s face. “Yes,” he said, optics still dark, “yes.”

Megatron’s berth was just wide enough to permit them to lie side by side. Neither of them reached for the lights, content to learn the shapes of the other in the dark, traversing familiar territory with unfamiliar purpose. And then Optimus slid his hand between Megatron’s legs and his interface hatch folded back and the slick, alien heat of his valve pressing on Optimus’s palm had never felt more natural or well-known. He hooked two fingers inside, curling up and pressing down on the exterior sensors with his thumb and Megatron groaned, pelvic span rising towards him and one hand lifting to rest on Optimus’s chest, just above his spark chamber.

Despite the thickness of his armor, the touch seared and Optimus locked up, a shudder wracking his body as his spark leapt towards Megatron. Megatron gasped, body jerking as Optimus’s fingers curved sharply inside him, but his optics focused on Optimus, the expression on his face questioning.

Processor spinning, Optimus tried to turn his attention back to what he was doing, “I am sorry.”

Megatron’s free hand gripped his forearm guard, stilling him. “No apologies,” he said quietly. “Not here. What do you need?”

Optimus could not have articulated half of the thought threads tangling in his processor. He tried to reign in, but caught halfway between memory and reality, past pain and present pleasure, his chassis split, a glowing fissure opening beneath Megatron’s hand.

Megatron drew in a sharp breath. “I—” he said and there was something conflicted and yet deeply longing in his tone. “I do not know if I can give you that.” His hand released Optimus’s arm and rose to touch his own chest, “I haven’t—”

“Your hand,” gasped Optimus, pushing helplessly towards him.

Megatron’s optics spiraled open in shock. His gaze dropped to his hand and he withdrew as if burned. “But why?” he said, hoarse and horrified. His plating rattled as he shuddered. “My hands are not….I will not…I could hurt you.”

Optimus cleared his vocalizer of static, “You did not before.”

It was clear Megatron grasped his meaning because he went stiff in Optimus’s hold, optics widening further. “That,” he said, face turning away, caught. “I…”

Optimus groped with his free hand for Megatron’s, cupping black fingers in his palm and guiding them up towards his chest. “Please,” he said simply.

Megatron shivered, but obeyed, rough heavy fingers brushing against the corona of Optimus’s spark, tongues of charge flickering between the digits. Pleasure crackled through Optimus’s neural net and he arched, pushing harder against him and Megatron’s hand shifted, cupping the chamber and tentatively probing the light of the spark itself. Optimus twisted, vocalizer spitting static, his grip tightening on Megatron’s forearm guard.

Megatron’s movements grew more confident, rhythmic, though his touch remained delicate, optics fixed on Optimus’s as he manipulated the spark. Optimus’s fans roared, resistors straining as his charge built, mouth open as he panted in futile effort to dissipate the growing heat.

“How?” said Megatron, his voice caught somewhere between haunted and fascinated as Optimus groaned, metal denting beneath his fingers as he labored towards the final threshold keeping him from overload. “I hurt you, I had you helpless in my hand, how can you bear this?”

Optimus could barely form a coherent thought. “I do not know,” he gasped, frustration and resigned despair warring in him. “But I could not forget it and I—” Megatron’s thumb scraped against the metal of his sparkchamber, sending vibrations through his very core and he cried out. “My spark has never rejected you, even when I have.”

“Someday,” said Megatron, voice a nearly inaudible rumble, as though he barely dared speak the word. His energy field throbbed with conflict and eagerness. “Someday I believe I may ask for your spark.”

Optimus’s fingers raked down his forearm, carving weals in the unpainted metal. “Someday,” he bit out. “I may say yes.”

Megatron kissed him, all clumsy force and incoherent hunger and his resistors tripped as he spasmed in overload. He clutched at Megatron as current overwhelmed his processor and his optics went dark to prevent a short-circuit.

He came to a few moments later, dizzy with the dissipating charge. Megatron was a heavy shadow above him, crimson optics bright in the gloom, his valve hot and slick as he moved, slow and unhurried, fragging himself on Optimus’s fingers.

Contrite, Optimus adjusted his grip, sliding his free arm around Megatron’s dorsal plating and bracing to allow him to move more freely. Megatron ground down against him, valve sparking and Optimus twisted his fingers, thumb sliding across the exterior nodes. Megatron jerked, gasping as he overloaded and lubricant drenched Optimus’s hand. His weight sagged down on Optimus, the space between them blistering with exhausted heat, and rested his helm on Optimus’s shoulder guard, panting deeply.

Optimus withdrew and stroked his back, spark humming with contentment. Megatron groped for his hand, still sticky with lubricant, and Optimus gave it over, allowing him to entwine their fingers and privately marveling that they linked as easily here as they had on the battlefield. He ran his thumb across Megatron’s hand, tracing the fine scorch marks left by Optimus’s own overload, before raising their joined hands and pressing a kiss atop Megatron’s fingers.

It did not produce the same, crackling excitement as giving his lover energon had, and so unspeakably strange and yet somehow right to think of Megatron as lover, but when Megatron lifted his helm, optics warm in the dark of the berthroom, Optimus thought that perhaps humans were onto something with this kissing business.

“What now?” said Megatron, his voice quiet and hoarse, a wealth of tangled emotions rippling through his field.

Optimus pulsed comfort and tentative joy at him, coaxing Megatron’s field to smooth and settle and his spark gave a slow, delighted throb when Megatron relaxed in response. “Whatever you want,” he replied. So much potential in those words, coming and going and loving and fighting, but unpacking them could wait for another cycle. He smiled.

“Besides, we still have our game to finish.”

Megatron’s kiss tasted of ash and sweet energon.

  
_What is love? ’tis not hereafter;_   
_Present mirth hath present laughter;_   
_What’s to come is still unsure:_   
_In delay there lies no plenty,—_   
_Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,_   
_Youth’s a stuff will not endure. - Twelfth Night, II;III_


End file.
